


The Toll of the Past

by Slytherkins



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-06-09 01:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6884029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slytherkins/pseuds/Slytherkins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <img/><br/></p>
</div>Harry makes one last sacrifice.
            </blockquote>





	1. Harry

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [At the Expense of the Future](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/203122) by Evan Glaser. 



> So I was taking a breather from TDUAK and reading some other stuff. And I was left so achy and bereft by this fic that I couldn't help but write some fanfiction for it. This was meant to be little more than a drabble, but I couldn't leave it alone. The original fic is short but manages with just a few words to make Harry and Remus and their relationship and past very rich. You really get a sense of their history-Harry's pain and Remus' exhaustion.
> 
> Anywho, go read it. Now. Before reading this fic. It's called At the Expense of the Future by Evan Glaser and it's found on ff.net. (Get it? The Toll of the Past is paid At the Expense of the Future? Yeah okay, sorry.)

_Remus was gone._

The shock of it temporarily dried the fount of Harry’s tears. He wasn’t surprised. He was literally in shock. He stared blankly through the empty doorway, left open behind the man when he had walked away. _Walked away_. It allowed Harry to hear the man’s steps retreating; their soft, unhurried clip growing fainter and fainter until they disappeared behind the gentle click of the closing front door downstairs.

Remus was gone.

Harry’s tremors returned, became more violent until Harry had to lower his head to the floor to prevent himself from falling there. Remus had left him. Had left him a sobbing mess on the floor; had turned and walked away as Harry had begged, on his knees, for the man help him. Remus had simply said, “no”. Remus had left. Remus was gone.

The abandonment eclipsed the turmoil he’d been gripped by just moments before. It was Remus' right, it was his duty to himself, but it still felt like betrayal to Harry. It felt like dying.

No. Dying would be less painful.

Remus had left, but Remus would be back. Harry knew this. He could imagine the man even now second guessing himself, looking back up at their bedroom window as he passed beneath it, wondering if he’d really done the right thing. He wouldn’t come back right away, though. He would teach Harry a lesson. Perhaps he’d stay over at Sturgis’. He’d ignore Harry’s owls. He’d stay quiet to allow Harry time to think about things, about ‘them’ and how much that was worth to Harry. Then he’d come home and pretend to be stern until Harry’s pitiful looks wore down his defenses and Remus would hold him again as Harry apologized and promised to be better, to try harder.

And they both would know those promises would be empty.

_Dying would be less painful._

Harry was suddenly calm. He sat up and could then feel the warmth of the morning sun falling through their window and onto the back of his neck as he stared unseeing into the empty space before him.

Dying would be less painful. But for whom?

Harry rose like a sleepwalker, shuffling to the dresser to take down his and Remus’ wedding photo, running his fingers lightly across its surface with a sigh. Remus looked so dashing in his new dress robes. He’d pitched such a fuss when Harry had bought them. He disliked Harry spending any money on him at all. But Harry had money to spare, and one only gets married once; or at least, that had been the idea.

Though, Harry hoped that wasn’t true in their case. He hoped Remus would find another man, one more whole, one whose pieces Remus didn’t have to hold together when all he wanted was to fall apart himself. Remus needed someone to hold _him._  And when he found him, Remus would have the galleons to buy them both new robes.

Harry wanted to be sure, though, so he went downstairs. He was unhurried; he felt almost peaceful. Harry drifted to the writing desk in the sitting room and took out all their important papers. Then, on a whim, he went to the cupboard in the hall and set the papers carefully on top of the box he found there and carried the lot back to their bedroom. The soft light of dawn was just right to view the box’s contents. Harry sat on the bed, pulling out the old photo album Hagrid had given him when he was a boy with something that bordered on reverence. Harry had filled the empty pages in the back with newer memories--His own memories. Collin had provided much of the contents, but Harry flipped past the images of Hogwarts to the very back, to pictures of him and Remus.

Harry serenely studied the candids caught by others of the two of them together before they realized they were in love, though it was all over them even then, and the ones after when they both openly glowed with it. Remus was so handsome, Harry thought. It was the kind of handsome that settled in with age--his boyish features gaining distinction with time--as if living revealed it, gave it nuance. Harry knew Remus stood to grow more handsome still and felt it a pity he wouldn’t be able to see it.

Harry set the album aside and took up the papers, shuffling through their birth certificates, their special commendations from the Ministry for service in the war, their marriage license, until he finally came to what he sought. Harry was pleased to find his will was straightforward. He’d not paid much attention when it was drafted, had left it to the solicitor; but it said here, plainly, with no special conditions, that Remus would inherit all of Harry’s possessions upon his death. Harry sighed with relief.

Remus would blame himself, and Harry hated that, but this was for the best. Harry took up the album to look at him again. Remus. His Remus. He looked so bright, so resilient. Despite a lifetime of loss he wasn’t hardened or cynical. He could weather this, Harry felt confident. Would weather it and move on, as he always did. Harry believed it, he had to believe it.     

Because Harry’s ghosts would never stop haunting him. He knew this now. Remus thought Harry needed simply to bury them, to face them down and let them go. But it was not that simple. It had never been, it would never be; and Harry would not continue to burden his husband. Besides, even if Harry did determine to be that selfish, Remus would simply leave eventually anyway--for good--as he should; and Harry could not fight his demons without the man. The result would be the same, regardless. Better that it comes now, while Remus still loves him, before Harry can cause them more pain to be added to the pain of what must be done.

Harry wasn’t frightened, though he wished he could see Remus one last time; to tell him he was sorry, to tell him he loved him. But then, Remus already knew. Harry made one final trip downstairs, returning to their room to do it because he liked the way the sun fell through the window. It was comforting. It almost negated the pain of the cut. Almost. But that pain was a mild and temporary thing. Harry had endured much, much worse. But never again.

He was careful not to let blood stain any of their papers. Though, he did mark the frame of their wedding photo as he stood it up on the bedside table to look at it as he drifted. Before he settled, Harry reached over and took Remus’ pillow, hugging it as tightly as he could manage with his waning strength to breathe in the man’s scent while he stared at his smiling face.

Harry was so glad Wizarding photos moved. There was a kind of magic in the way Remus’ smile emerged, that occurred in that almost imperceptible moment when it transitioned into pure joy, that stationary photography could not quite capture. Watching it, Harry felt some of that same magic on his own lips as well.

And then, blessedly, Harry felt nothing at all.     


	2. Remus

Remus had not had enough to make him drunk, just enough to calm him, to put him in a more charitable frame of mind. Not toward himself. In fact, Remus felt increasingly wretched for having left Harry, for having let his anger and frustration overbear his compassion. It was a rare circumstance that could result in it. Remus’ compassion was impressive in its depth.

But it had failed him that morning, coming in from a long overnight shift to find his husband inconsolable on the floor of their bedroom. Remus had been weary, and not just in body. They had come so far, and seeing Harry slide back into his pit of guilt and self-loathing so soon had been a blow. Remus sighed, pushing back his empty glass, grateful the barkeep had made no comment on the man’s liquid breakfast, which he had served with an understanding expression only moments after having unlocked the pub’s doors.

Remus knew he had to go home, but he was reluctant after having failed the young man so badly. Whether Harry could or should pull himself out of his own despair was irrelevant. Remus was his husband, had known when he married him the kind of demons the young man kept. It was to be expected; Harry had undoubtedly earned their company. He’d known little but hardship since he was a boy, and just because those hardships had ended didn’t mean the struggle against them would. Remus understood it. The battle doesn’t end when the fight is over. In some way it only truly begins, it simply becomes internal. All that evil held at bay by necessity, ignored while one’s focus is urgently elsewhere, becomes suddenly visible and crushing; and Harry’s darkness had been accumulating since he was one year old.  

If Remus was honest with himself, part of the anger he’d directed at Harry didn’t even belong to the younger man. Remus was simply offended somehow upon realizing he wasn’t sufficient; that his love alone, so generously bestowed, could not stave off Harry’s pain. He was angry at himself for failing him; seeing him hurt, hating that hurt, and feeling inadequate to soothe it. They were besotted, damn it. It was deep and heady and true. So why was it not enough? Remus was meant to be Harry’s light, and light chases away darkness, doesn’t it? Why were Harry’s shadows so opaque and tenacious? But then, Remus sometimes felt the urge to succumb to his own darkness, even with the comfort of Harry’s love to hold him. Perhaps he felt that urge because of Harry, knowing the young man would be there to catch him should he fall too far; and Remus suddenly felt like the worst kind of hypocrite, selfish because he was tetchy Harry’s weakness meant Remus couldn’t entertain his own.

Remus scrubbed his hand over his face. Remorse made his drink threaten to make a reappearance. He sometimes forgot how young Harry was, and that he himself had gone through a similar crisis at that age. Suddenly having a life entirely your own can be daunting; and no one, not even Remus, could claim to have known the burden, the pain and guilt and responsibility, that Harry had endured in his twenty-one short years. Remus still felt Harry needed to learn to fight his own battles, in case the day came when Remus could not be there to carry him, willingness aside. And after all, Remus had had no one to help him when he was young. But he recalled he had yearned for someone. He still clearly remembered that ache, and just because Remus had been alone didn’t mean Harry must be now.

Besides, it was a muscle that had to be trained. They’d faced the dark down before they had wed, and it had been difficult, but Remus should have known one victory could not vanquish so terrible a foe. Remus knew this morning’s breakdown would not be the last, either, but he had to help Harry try; and over time these episodes would surely grow more seldom. Surely.

Remus tossed his money on the bar and nodded a goodbye to the man polishing its already mirror-clean surface. The morning was still young and Remus took his time walking home. Perhaps his exit had been just the shock Harry had needed to pull himself together; but if not, the man resolved he would hold him as tightly as and for as long as Harry needed to find his footing again.

Remus opened their front door quietly, listening for any sounds from upstairs that would indicate what he might be walking into. He puzzled slightly over the open cupboard door, walking over to close it as he stretched his ear. “Harry,” he called gently up the stairs as he climbed them, but there was no answer. “Harry?” Remus knocked lightly. Their bedroom door was ajar, and Remus waited in case Harry needed to collect himself, placing his ear to the door as he spoke through it. “Love, I’m sorry,” he told him sincerely. “May I come in?”

Remus sighed when there was still no answer, finally pushing open the door. Harry lay with his back to him, surrounded on the bed by a curious collection of odds and ends. Remus didn’t pay them much attention, though. He looked, instead, to his husband. Remus smiled at him fondly. He supposed Harry must have cried himself to sleep, which was not the worst way to deal with these things. Remus noticed he had also pulled down their wedding photo to look at while he dozed. It filled Remus with tenderness, and he knew they would make it through this. Their love was strong enough, without doubt.

But even as he felt his heart swell in his chest, Remus sensed something was not right.

Remus’ warm smile faded. Harry was too still, too quiet. Remus thought for a moment he might have been feigning sleep in order to avoid further confrontation; but Remus knew, even as it occurred to him, that it was a lie he’d told himself to stave off his worst suspicion.

But it was unthinkable. Remus was simply letting his guilt get the better of him. Harry--his Harry--was stronger than that. _Surely he was stronger than that_.  

Looking again, Remus saw something smeared the glass and frame of their wedding photo, and though the stain was small, it was ominous. Remus scowled at it, his heart pounding, and moved further into the room, glancing down at the papers littering the bed. Remus recognized the stack and had thought Harry might have been looking at their Marriage License, but a closer look revealed their Wills, instead, topping the mess.

And Remus’ pounding heart stopped.

“No,” he whispered, eyes returning to their wedding photo, recognizing, now, what soiled its surface. He shook his head, refusing to accept what he was seeing, what he knew it meant, even as the fullness of the horror was revealed to him as he moved around the corner of the bed.     

Remus was shaking so hard he could barely stand, could barely draw enough breath to voice the endless ‘No’s that fell trembling from his lips. He wasn’t aware of falling, simply suddenly felt the floor beneath his legs and the window sill digging into his back as he stared, almost unwillingly, at the gruesome sight before him. Red cascaded down the side of their bed, painting the coverlet and dripping from it to pool on the rug. It saturated the pillow Harry hugged to his chest. Remus’ pillow. The young man was pale but looked peaceful, was even smiling slightly. His eyes were still open a crack but were glassy.

“No, Harry, NO!” Remus cried, scrambling to his knees, dragging them into the sticky but still warm stain on the rug, his hands quivering as he reached hesitantly to lay them on his love. Remus touched Harry’s hand, jerking away at how cool it felt. Cool, but not icy. The movement dislodged Harry’s arm from the pillow and it fell open, revealing the neat, six inch cut down the length of his forearm, which was still seeping. Remus knew he had to do something, that it was pressing, but shock and despair slowed his thinking and movements. Remus felt his world crumbling; his future, his life... _his_ life was fading away, bleeding out, and Remus could see nothing beyond it. Only darkness. Only bleak, unending anguish. This loss would not be like the others. This loss would defeat him. Utterly. He felt it had already.

The early morning sun glinted ruby red off the old-fashioned straight razor Harry had given him for Christmas that year, laying on the bedside table in front of their wedding photo; and the urge to pick it up and join his husband in his fate was overwhelming. But it might not be too late. Seeing the amount of blood spilled on their bed, it was almost unimaginable, but it might not be too late and Remus could not fail Harry further. He reached up and dragged Harry off the side of the bed and into his lap, holding him tightly and rocking for a moment before he could manage to focus, before he could remember how to do what it was he needed to do. But just for that moment all he could seem to do was wail. He was wailing still when he Apparated them to St. Mungo’s, the volume of his distress resulting in several professional-looking witches and wizards rushing in their direction.

The first witch to reach them dropped to her knees in front of them, but her face instantly fell as her eyes took in the cut and Harry’s pale skin. “Help him,” Remus pleaded, but he was so winded by grief and desperation he was unsure it was even audible. She looked at Remus, very prettily sympathetic, and began to shake her head. “ _Don’t_ look at me like that. _Help_ him!” he cried more loudly. The witch did not move with the urgency Remus was willing her to with all his heart and soul. _Why was she not moving?_ “This is Harry Bloody Potter, goddamnit! _Do something!_ ” he bellowed.

Finally, the witch quickened, understanding lighting her eyes just as re-enforcements arrived. The rest was a blur. Relief swept through Remus as they took Harry from him; whispering rushed but adamant things into their wands as they conjured the stretcher, as they led Harry away at a sprint; leaving Remus, dazed and soul-crushed, behind on the entry room floor, alone and covered in the blood of his lover.  


	3. Severus

Severus had never expected to actually see the young man again. To hear about him, certainly. Even so many years after defeating the Dark Lord and reversing the fiend’s post-mortem curse, Harry Potter was still and always a tabloid favorite; despite the wunderkind’s near reclusivity. Or perhaps it was because of it. Harry had never given the public a chance to weary of him, and so when his marriage to his former _-male-_ Hogwarts professor was found out, their obsession had been renewed. Severus knew that war made for strange bedfellows, but even he had had some qualms upon hearing the news. Though, in light of his vast contribution to society, Harry was roundly considered justified in whatever he damned well chose to do with his life now, even by Professor Snape. Nevertheless, three months later there were still daily headlines filled with wild speculation.   

Severus shuddered. Those headlines would be nothing compared to the ones that would be seen once this new development in Potter’s continuing saga inevitably leaked.

In truth, Severus had actually _hoped_ he’d never see the young man again. Their history was so complicated and uncomfortable. But to meet him again under these circumstances? It was almost unbearable. When they had paged the former-Death Eater-turned-healer to advise him of the situation and request his assistance, Severus had been sickened by the news but not particularly surprised. He was, however, angry. For almost two decades Severus had worked to protect the boy from relentless attempts on his life, and now he might die by his own hand? It truly was a pity. Well before the brat had turned sixteen, his Potions Master had finally accepted he was no longer merely keeping Harry alive to fulfill some dubious prophecy, but because he’d developed a grudging fondness for the boy; had reluctantly acknowledged Harry faced circumstances that were maddeningly undeserved. Life was not fair to any of them, but it seemed to hold a special enmity toward Harry Potter.

Severus allowed himself a short moment to process his sadness and vexation, his disappointment and panic, before Apparating to the emergency ward.

His tenure as a double spy served Severus well at the hospital. He was able to compartmentalize everything that did not serve him and act as necessary when necessary. But even he was taken aback at seeing the saviour of the Wizarding World dead on the trauma table while his husband could still be heard despairing outside.

 _No_. Not dead. He only looked dead. If he had already passed the point of no return, surely they wouldn’t have paged. But then, this was Harry Potter. Rigor mortis could have set in and they still would have tried to revive him. The thought that this boy--no, this _man_ \--could die; that he was not, somehow, immortal; was abhorrent for all of them. And Severus would be damned if it occurred on his watch.

“Respiratus?” he asked of the witch conjuring a barely detectable bubble around Harry’s nose and mouth. She gave Severus a taciturn nod and then returned her concentration to her task.

“Any idea how much blood he’s lost or long he’s been unconscious?” Severus asked urgently to shaking heads as he checked Harry’s vitals. “His heart has stopped,” he said to himself, feeling his own sink. Though, Harry’s body temperature had not dropped enough for it to have been still or empty for very long. “ _No_ , do not attempt to restart it until we have something for it to pump,” he instructed as an assistant went to place the tip of his wand to the young man’s breast. It was a typically slow shift, and the personnel at his disposal were woefully green and no doubt intimidated by the renown of their patient. “Implete Sanguinem,” he demanded of a nearby nurse who was already busy retrieving his request. “All we have. And _you_ ,” he said curtly, pointing at the wizard who was repairing Harry’s wound, causing him to jump slightly. His nervousness did not inspire confidence in Severus, but there was nothing to be done about it. “Tighten that tourniquet. The potion will result in blood leakage as it begins to work, but do _not_ close the skin until you are confident that you have sealed each and every vein. Is that clear?” But as soon as he had said it Severus decided the job was too delicate to be left to anyone else, and he moved the man aside, completing the task himself as he orchestrated the others.

This was not Severus’ specialty, and certainly not his preferred work. Technically, he was Chief Potions Master and in charge of medicinals. But the man had an almost unnatural ability to absorb and retain knowledge, was proficient in everything he set his hand to and, as he worked to expand his repertoire, had helped in the ER on several occasions. He was invariably called in because of his leadership abilities; his decisiveness and level headedness under pressure.

Once the potion had been administered and before he was finished with his own meticulous work, Severus instructed them to cast the shock spell meant to reanimate Harry’s heart. It seemed to take an eternity, and Severus lost track of the attempts; but finally, just before he managed to completely seal Harry’s skin, the wound began to bleed. Thick red pushed from the closing cut with force, however feeble, indicating Harry’s heart was now beating. Severus released a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding and stepped back from the table, surprisingly exhausted.

“Is he breathing?” he asked calmly, relievedly.

“With assistance.”

Severus nodded. “Carry on,” he instructed. “And contact the lab. He will need more Sanguinem as soon as possible.” Someone close at hand did him the courtesy of magically removing the blood that stained his hands and saturated his cuffs, for which he expressed a rare gesture of gratitude. “Now,” he sighed, “where is the man who brought him in? Has anyone spoken to him yet?”

An entry nurse apprised Severus of the location of, and the assistance being provided to, what was presumed to be the young man’s husband. Severus nodded again, pulling a magically warmed blanket from a shelf on his way toward the door. There he paused, looking back on The Boy Who Lived, willing him to earn that title once more. Severus found himself possessed by an uncharacteristic bout of emotion, but he expressed it with a very characteristic tone of threat.

“Do _not_ allow him to die,” he said, looking at them all in turn, “or I’ll murder the lot of you,” he promised, with no note of play, as he leaned back into the door and strode through it.    

 


	4. Unexpected Reunion

Someone kind, who Remus would not remember, helped him to his feet. The scouring spell, cast by still someone else, removed his husband’s spilled life from his skin, but not entirely from his clothes and not at all from his memory. Even scoured, Remus saw his hands stained red each time he looked at them, making him feel a Shakespearean urge to scrub them repeatedly, though, he could not find the elan to even really wonder where the washroom might be. Remus smelled blood, saw it wherever he looked, felt coated in it; he could taste it in the bile he continually fought down because he was too paralyzed by grief to find a place to be ill properly. When asked if there was anyone he would like them to contact, Remus had distractedly said no. There was no one of consequence to the young man left to contact.  

Harry had no one. It was one of the things that had drawn the two of them together. Remus had lived with it long enough to be accustomed to it, but they had both been utterly alone until they had had each other; and then Remus had dared walk out on him, as well, when Harry was at his most vulnerable. What had Remus been thinking? It had seemed reasonable at the time, for Harry’s own good as much as Remus’. But the truth was he didn’t think, not really. He had been tired and soul-weary; was still, but now a thousandfold. He felt a pang for the straight razor again. If Harry did not make it through this, he might use it after all. A man so callous did not deserve to live, he thought.

He’d killed Harry Potter. Remus hiccuped a desperate chuckle that concerned his attendants as they settled him in a small waiting room and onto a comfortable sofa Remus took no note of. Dark Lords and Death Eaters, curses and conspiracies had not succeeded. In the end, all it had taken was one man: one man Harry had trusted, who had held Harry's heart in his hand and had treated it with no more care than common rubbish, who had crushed it and walked away to have a pint. Remus was once again loudly distraught. They tried to comfort him by explaining what was being done for Harry but, until they told him the young man would be alright, none of it mattered and Remus did not absorb any of it. In the end they had left him at his request, soundproofing his door and closing it behind them, to let the man work through his grief alone.

It might have been a few moments, it might have been hours--it was all the same to Remus--before he was again disturbed. He did not hear the door and almost didn’t notice the figure that approached him; and though it was familiar, it took Remus a moment to process the new presence.

“What are _you_ doing here?” he asked, surprise making it sound ruder than it was meant. Severus, however, did not seemed fazed in the slightest.

“That is a rather longish story,” he replied evenly, “that may not be appropriate at the moment. Suffice it to say, I have been tending to Mister...Potter-Lupin,” he informed Remus, obviously finding Harry’s new name unfamiliar, if not downright uncomfortable, though there was no judgement in the man’s expression.   

“Don’t,” Remus rasped, eyes falling closed as he shook his head. “My name does not deserve to be attached to his,” he said, his voice sounding wretched and lost. “A man should not be referred to by his murderer’s moniker.”

Severus scowled as if trying to keep his patience and his tongue, failing ever so slightly with both. “It seems quite clear that this is no case of murder, Lupin,” he admonished gently, “but of attempted suicide. I’m not sure what transpired between the two of you beforehand to make you feel this way, but hyperbole won’t help any of us.” He was matter-of-fact but not cruel. And though Remus bristled at the perceived insensitivity, it nonetheless sobered him, clearing his head.

“So, you’ve seen him?” Remus nodded hopefully. “How…? Will he…?”

Severus sighed and took a stiff seat on the couch beside him, understanding the question Remus couldn’t voice. He looked grave, but then Severus often looked grave and Remus was unable to tell if it was anything to do with their present situation. “We sealed the wound and injected him with potions to replenish his blood supply. But his body has gone into shock, naturally,” Severus explained, his bedside manner seriously lacking. Though, Remus found the news, however abruptly delivered, was easier to accept from someone he knew. “We are still actively treating him. We aren’t certain yet what effect there might have been on his brain, if any. But his heart is beating of its own accord,” he reassured Remus softly, “and his lungs are attempting self-sufficiency, as well.”

Remus nodded gratefully, but his heart stuttered in his chest as his mind replayed the words ‘Effects on the brain’ and ‘attempting self-sufficiency’. He felt himself slipping back into despair when Severus laid a warm blanket in his shaking hands.

“What’s this?” he asked, nearly dropping it.   

“You are in shock, also,” Severus said, squinting at him. “Not to such a life-threatening degree, obviously, but that’s no reason not to attend to it.” Remus made no move to stop the man when he reached over to take his pulse; frowning, but releasing him after a moment as if satisfied. Remus toyed with the blanket, having no intention of using it, glancing over at his concerned but obviously uncomfortable temporary companion. Severus was not the confidant Remus would have chosen, but he was the only one there, and Remus felt his confession heavy on his tongue.   

“If he dies, Severus,” Remus said in a quavering voice, “I’ll never be able to live with myself.”

Severus’ scowl deepened and he looked at Remus without speaking long enough to make the man uncomfortable. “Much as I grudgingly respect him,” Severus began finally, “he’s always been impulsive and over-reactive. Which is nothing to do with you. ” Severus’ bluntness chafed, but he didn’t give Remus a chance to object. “ _If_ he dies, which is far from certain at this point, then he will have killed himself, which really is his prerogative. And I also have absolutely no doubt he would not want you to blame yourself.”

Remus looked at Severus, too full of conflicting emotions to respond right away. The man was clearly trying to comfort him, but his technique was so awful Remus couldn’t imagine they allowed the man to have these kinds of talks with family members very often.  

 _“He_ blames himself,” Remus told Severus. “For all the others.” Remus waited, but Severus sat quietly as if prepared to listen. “You know, one of the last things I said to him is that Voldemort was to blame, not him.” Remus was newly sick remembering the conversation. “And I called his guilt... _self-pity_.”

“Perhaps it was,” Severus said softly. “Perhaps this is as well.”

“Yes, but Severus,” Remus said desperately, grasping the man’s sleeve. Severus looked down at it but did not comment. “Harry was not to blame for a madman’s preoccupation with him. But _I_...my actions were directly responsible for Harry’s decision.”  

“Remus,” Severus sighed, his voice far more kindly than it had been yet. He lay a hand hesitantly but gently over the hand that gripped his cuff, patting it lightly. “There is still reason to believe he will pull through. And when he is able, then you should both seek some sort of help. That he was not already speaking to someone is…” Severus shook his head, at a loss at their apparent lack of foresight.

Remus’ mood turned from desperate to bitter, and he released the poor man’s sleeve to sit back. “He would not go. I _tried_. I swear,” Remus vowed, shaking his head. Severus nodded his understanding.

“He may not have a choice now,” he warned Remus. “After things of this nature, St. Mungo’s will typically not release a patient without it. Though our Mr. Potter is often shown special deference,” he added with a subtle roll of his eyes, “treatment is mandated by law. He can’t just decide not to participate, or they could threaten to commit him. For his own safety.”

It was Remus' turn to nod. He didn’t like to think how Harry would respond to the news, but it honestly was a relief. Remus had tried to convince Harry to speak to a therapist the last time he was struggling, but the young man would have none of it. He seemed convinced Remus was all he needed, which Remus recalled resenting. But he’d accepted the responsibility at the time anyway. “Silver linings, eh?” he asked Severus sardonically with a scowl of his own.

“Remus, I realize we have not--historically speaking--been friends,” Severus said with a sigh. “But much connects us. I’m here for you,” he said, looking practically ill with his distaste of sentiment, but soldiering through anyway, “should you conceive of anything helpful I might provide.” Remus only nodded. He could tell the man felt it was doubtful such a thing would happen, but he could also tell the offer was sincere; and it was appreciated enormously, and was especially touching considering who extended it.  

“So,” Remus said after a moment, once again finding his voice fickle. “When can I see him?” Remus was desperate to be reunited with Harry but was frightened at the same time. It would be torturous to see the young man laid so low. But Remus _needed_ to see him again. He needed to see his color restored, his chest rising and falling. He wanted to listen to his heart and assure himself it was beating.   

“We’ll show you to his room once he’s stabilized,” Severus advised understandingly. “Which he may be at this point. I’ll go check, shall I?”  

Remus nodded his gratitude, could tell Severus was relieved to have a chance to excuse himself. He rose quickly and made for the door, but Remus stopped him before he could escape entirely.

“Severus.”

The man turned back, patient but apprehensive.

“Thank you,” Remus told him softly, hoping the simple words were able to convey the sincerity he felt in speaking them. Severus seemed unexpectedly moved himself, opened his mouth to respond, but in the end simply nodded and continued on his errand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: This fic might not ever be updated. I haven't decided definitively to abandon it. But working on it depresses me, like whoa. Unlike the fic I'm currently working on, where I'm just mucking through feelings I already have, this one requires me to reach deep and poke at a slumbering monster. So...Jus sayin', don't hold your breath. 
> 
> Is entirely possible I'll need to confront these demons again someday. But today isn't that day.


End file.
